Emotions Are A Pain, Literally
by smalld1171
Summary: One-shot inspired by 7x09 but no spoilers for that episode.  Dean doesn't handle his emotions very well.  Rated for language and mentions of self harm.  I posted earlier but fricked it up, so here is try number two.


**Another one-shot that flew into my head after 7x09 although there are no spoilers for that episode. Emotions plus Dean equals nothing good. Couple of F-bombs in this one. Not my usual style but they just seemed to fit in this time.**

**Disclaimer: I own NOTHING!**

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><p>Emotions. They are such a pain in the ass.<p>

And look, the gang's all here.

Fear.

Hate.

Guilt.

He breathes out through his nose, agitation rising with each breath.

Those fuckers. He can feel them there, can sense them waiting the same way they always do, just beneath the surface, stalking him, ready to bubble up out of his pores at the first sign of weakness.

The bastards swirl around him and it seems they have brought a shitload of ammunition to use against him.

An image of his mother on fire. He swallows in an effort to stop the bile from reaching his throat as the pungent odour of rotting, burning flesh reaches and sears his sense of smell.

An image of his dad, lifeless and burning on the pyre. He shivers at the irony of it. The fact that at the same moment he and his brother watched their father turn to ash before their eyes, his soul was burning in the fires of Hell. Because of _him_.

His resolve teeters as the emotions flutter in constant motion on the outskirts of his mind, not once letting up in their bombardment. He shakes his head. He can't… he won't let them in.

He stumbles through the room and reaches blindly for his duffel on the floor to find something, anything to make the images stop, to prevent the latch from being undone and his baggage falling out in a smoldering pile on the floor. He can't afford that. Neither can his brother. He smirks as his fingers graze the very thing that will help tone down the onslaught to more of an annoying crawl. He fights with the lid, staggers his way to the bathroom but then those fucking feelings of his turn up the heat.

An image of Jo with her stomach ripped apart, her guts splayed out on the floor in some stupid store in the middle of nowhere. And how Ellen... knowing that her beloved daughter, her reason for being was going to die, stays by her side, not wanting her to die alone. His eyes start to burn at the memory of both Harvelle women torn apart by an explosion that _he_ rigged himself.

He looks to the item in his grip, blurred by the tears that start to collect in his weary and bloodshot eyes. Shit, come on already, he needs to get to the...

An image of Sam, as he jumps into the pit.

He fixates on that last image, the one of Sam falling into damnation. He drops the container on the floor and sinks to his knees. When he takes in a shaky breath, that's when those sons of bitches make their final push. They pounce on him like a rabid animal, they hone in on that one little crack, that one small splinter in his usually impenetrable wall.

He needs to get away, needs to... he thinks he's moving now, can't figure out where he's going or what he's trying to get to, but he needs to do something to ease the pounding and unrelenting current of fear and hate and guilt that floods through him like a massive tidal wave.

Christ, they have their talons embedded so deep into his body and brain that he feels paralyzed. They crowd him until he finds he can't quite muster the strength to suck in one more breath.

Somehow he finds himself at the foot of the bed so opts to crawl his way up and flop face down. He howls in response to the pressure mounting within him to release what he has fought so long to keep hidden and buried.

They tug at him, threaten to tear him apart piece by piece. They clamour and jostle for position, all eager to claim their prize. Him.

He reaches under the pillow to wrap it around his throbbing head as if it will stop it from splitting right in two. That is when he finds it. Plan B.

Fuck it. Fuck them. Go ahead, give it your best shot.

He clutches the item, his protection from _them_ firmly in his hand, and manoeuvres himself until he sits on the bed, his legs over the side.

Huh. Emotions. They are a pain in the ass. But they won't win. They will not claim him.

They bite and nip at his brain but he has a bite of his own. He feels the burn across his skin, relishes the tension that is released. He looks to his arm and is mesmerized by it, by the trail of red as it paints his exposed skin. Gravity pulls the oozing fluid down and away, like the current of a river, until it begins its descent from his fingertips to the flimsy carpet below. He's fixated and sure, it hurts like Hell but the sensation makes him smile. That's the fucking point. Take that you ugly mothers, you've lost your mojo, _he_ is the one with the upper hand now. They won't get him. They won't win.

Let them try. He doesn't care. Not really. Hasn't cared for so long about anything. Hell, in fact, he _wants_ them to try. Wants them to do their worst, to try and puncture and maim and mutilate whatever is left of his heavy heart and blackened soul. He doesn't give a shit. Really. So what the Hell, time to make it a real party.

Bring. It. On.

Their momentum seems to have gotten a second wind and they intensify their assault with a collage of faces, of people he has witnessed die a bloody and gruesome death. They try to pull the hammer down but he just smiles and grips the blade tight once more.

The agony he feels as it reaches beyond his skin, beyond his flesh to scrape against bone rushes the air out from his lungs... and he welcomes it.

Them... all of them... the fear, hate and guilt begin to recede. Their zeal to overtake him has been dampened and he feels his heartbeat begin to slow and his breath start to even out. He feels fuzzy and adrift on a calming, emotionless sea. Awesome.

He knew they... huh... take that... they... didn't win... he... he beat them... they will... never win...

His lips curl up in silent victory before his achingly numb fingers let go of the blade and it drops to the floor with a light thud, his body only seconds behind. It's good though... it's fucking fantastic actually. They are silent. He has won.

As the darkness lances across his vision he swears he can hear the faint call of his name and the warm touch of his brother's hand on his wrist. He tries to focus in on Sam's face but he can't, it dips and weaves and fades and morphs from one to three, back to one until he starts to feel nauseous. His lids close and he feels his body shake under Sam's grip.

"s'okay S'mmmm... m'good... they're... gone...beat... them..."

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><p><strong>End. Thanks for having a look.<strong>


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